


Six Across: Secret Tryst

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Whump, best avocado, foggy's a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26736343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Foggy can appreciate Matt is trying to be more open but he knows he'll still get some shocks along the way... some more surprising than others!
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Marci Stahl
Comments: 28
Kudos: 157
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Fratt Week, Marvel Fluff Bingo





	Six Across: Secret Tryst

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the FrattWeek prompt _cross_ , the Bad Things Happen bingo prompt _secret caretaking_ , the Marvel Fluff Bingo prompt _secret dating_.
> 
> As always, big thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel) for betaing and hand-holding! ♥

Foggy Nelson has a busy life even on the weekends, sure, but he always makes time for his friends. Even when the friend in question is being Difficult ™ but then again, Matt has never been the most open of guys. Foggy’s well aware of that. Matt’s trying; he’s getting better at it, but it’s still a work in progress.

Also, Foggy can never stay mad at him for very long: Matt does that face; you know the one. He maybe spices it up with some manly, tight-jawed, repressed emoting, or he somehow manages to catch the light he _can’t_ see in just the right way to emphasize the latest wound or bruise he acquired, all the while pretending he’s _fine, Foggy, totally fine; you don’t need to stay_. Maybe there’s a badly hidden wince in there somewhere, because Mr. Stoic is in fact terrible at hiding anything even though he’s convinced he’s fooling people.

He is not.

“I can come to the office tomorrow, Fogs; I’m not that badly hurt.”

Yes he is.

“I’ve had worse!”

“How is that reassuring, Matt? Please explain it to me.” Foggy’s going to sit on him if that’s what it takes. He’s ready, he’s willing, he’s totally gonna do it.

“It’s just a couple of broken ribs.”

Wow. Foggy wants to point out _he’s_ never broken a single rib in his life, but that’s probably not going to help. “And?”

A pout. An honest-to-God pout. “Sprained wrist?”

“ _And?_ ”

“Some bruising, okay, but…”

“You’re really trying my patience here.”

“The bullets are out!”

“Which means at one point, they were _in_. We’ve been over this before, Matt: blood stays inside, metal stays outside.”

“They didn’t go in deep; I think one at least was a ricochet and the other just…”

Foggy throws his hands up. “Jesus, Matt, do you hear yourself?”

Oh. Oh no, not the Sad Murdock Face. “But I couldn't do _nothing_ , Fogs.”

With a sigh, Foggy sits on the couch next to Matt. “Yeah, I know. But you don’t wear body armor, you don’t call for backup, and I’m pretty sure you just jump in without thinking of yourself.”

“I’m not going to let them catch me; I promise. I know that would be bad for our firm and for you.”

Right, yes, thanks for reminding him of things he tries very hard not to think about. Matt can say what he wants; he can’t make that kind of promise and he knows it. There’s no way to guarantee that, only that he’ll do his best. Foggy rubs his face and continues. “I don’t even understand how you got back home in that state.”

“Well, Maggie…”

“Nevermind home; how did you even get to the _church_ in the first place?”

Matt looks cagey for a minute. “I wasn’t that far.”

Okay, so Foggy won’t get an answer, at least not for now. Fine, see if he cares. (He cares, but Matt can’t see, so… works out, right?) “If you say so. But I mean it; Karen and I can do without you tomorrow.”

“But…”

“Stay home; you can work on the Schmidt case from here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s settled, then. You stay put and I’ll be at the office tomorrow; at least _I_ won’t scare the client with a face like roadkill.”

“My face doesn’t look like roadkill.”

“You don’t even know what roadkill looks like!”

“My face is fine.”

“If by _fine_ you mean featuring scraped skin, lacerations, butterfly stitches, and a proto-beard, sure.”

“I can’t shave when my skin’s a bit… tender.”

“Raw. _That’s_ the word you’re looking for, not tender. Raw _._ ”

“I’ll shave tomorrow night so I look presentable for Tuesday.”

“Who says you’ll be coming to work on Tuesday?”

“I can’t be away that long; I promised you I’d pull my weight.”

“You did, and you will: if you’re working from here, you’re still working. I’ll tell you when you look human enough you can come back in.”

Matt frowns, hangs his head, mumbles some _Sorrys_ and _Okays_ and _You’re Right, Fogs_ ; he lets himself be led to his bed and lays down, looking very sad and guilty but Foggy is, of course, totally immune. (He’s not.)

“Will you be okay on your own?”

“Yeah, I will. You’re having Sunday lunch with Marci’s folks, right?”

“I am.” Foggy’s looking forward to it; Marci’s dad is a fantastic cook and they usually follow up the meal with a slightly tipsy game of cut-throat Monopoly or the like. They’ve been keeping to games Foggy’s familiar with but her mom’s been making noises about expanding his game game, so he’s probably going to be figuring out new rules while inebriated. Matt’s fridge, however, probably only contains beer, a sad lettuce, maybe a carton of milk or days-old takeout. “Hey, want me to order you some food?” He strides to the kitchen and opens the fridge to assess the situation. He could get groceries delivered, make sure that Matt… “Holy shit.” The fridge was _stocked_. Fresh veggies, eggs (are those organic? they _are_!), halloumi… Wow.

“I’m not hungry right now, thanks. …Foggy?”

“Uh, sorry, I was just checking that you don’t have anything rotting in your kitchen.”

“I’d know; I’d smell it, Foggy.”

“Right, yes.” He closes the fridge, does a double-take at the number of mugs and knives and plates in the sink, and shakes his head. Either Matt has had guests lately (in which case, good for him) or he’s lagging on the dishwashing, which is surprising because he hates leaving dirty dishes around ( _It stinks, Foggy)…_ but it’s also a human thing to do. It’s good to have proof that Matt’s a regular guy too. He’ll have to ask about Matt’s possibly rekindled love life when he’s back on his feet. “Okay, I'm out; don’t try to save anyone once I’m gone!”

It’s only once he’s out in the streets, walking past that new construction site near Matt’s, that he registers he saw a… dog leash? hanging from the coat pegs near the door. Can’t have been a leash, unless Matt’s into kinky shit with the mysterious guest of the dirty dishes. Aw shit, now Foggy’s going to have to do something about those mental images that he hasn’t asked for, ugh. He’s suspected Matt’s not a 100% vanilla, missionary-sex-only guy since at least Elektra v1.0 but _still_. Brain bleach right now, please.

Thankfully, the excellent wine they serve at Casa de Stahls is just as efficient and way more tasty.

When Foggy comes back to Matt’s apartment to talk shop on Monday afternoon, the leash has disappeared and he wonders if he hasn’t imagined it. Matt’s better already; he’s wearing a too-big sweatshirt that he’s swimming in and the sleeves are too long for him. It doesn’t seem to bother him, so Foggy raises his eyebrows for his own benefit and leaves it at that.

The formerly-dirty dishes are now drying in the rack, and it looks like the bed was remade: the corners are tight, the sheet is precisely folded over the duvet, the pillows fluffed and placed Just Right. Matt didn’t do this, and now that Foggy’s thinking about it the sweatshirt looks worn but it’s not one he’s ever seen before. Not that Foggy would claim to know the entire contents of Matt’s wardrobe; they haven’t lived together since college, but… yeah, it’s strange. Weirdly enough, there’s also a crossword puzzle book on the table.

Well, maybe Maggie came by; Foggy can imagine a nun would be into military beds and clean dishes, right? And crosswords. _And_ well-stocked fridges; she’s probably the one making sure Matt eats better than he would if left to his own devices. Yeah, that’s exactly it. What was Foggy thinking?

Weeks go by and nothing of import shakes their world, just like Foggy prefers. Their client base gets bigger, the weather gets cooler as October unfolds, and Matt remains mostly injury-free for all that time. All in all, things are good; now they can even think of sprucing up the office. They’ve gotten second-hand but comfortable chairs for their clients, and Karen’s found some low-maintenance potted plants as decoration. They're, like, a _real_ firm now.

Foggy dumps the heavy box he’s carrying on a chair and says, “So I got this bunch of crossword puzzles; maybe Maggie would be interested?”

Matt’s blank face probably means Foggy’s hypothesis is way wrong. “Crossword puzzles? Maggie?”

“Yeah, when I was at your place the other day I saw a book on your kitchen counter; I thought it was hers.” It has to be a regular visitor; Foggy’s spotted that book several times at Matt’s by now and it’s gone from just started to mostly-finished in about a month.

“Um.”

Well, that’s helpful. “Marci’s parents won those at their gamers’ club, but they’re not really into it; she said we could put them in our waiting room.”

“More a nook than a room.”

Not the point, Matty. “Okay, so if it’s not Maggie…?”

“Uh, it’s a good idea. The waiting nook, I mean.” Then Matt does an awkward side-shuffle and practically throws himself into his desk chair, jamming in an earbud like he’s trying to stab a piece of rubber into his brain via his ear.

Foggy dumps the magazines on the tiny table in the corner and forgets about them until he leaves early to meet a client at 5. He doesn’t come back to the office until the next morning, when he realizes most of the magazines have disappeared. He looks suspiciously at Matt when he gets there, but he doesn’t really know how to ask why he’s that interested in magazines he can’t read without sounding like he’s putting Matt on the stand, so he leaves it be.

Still. Foggy doesn’t forget.

He knows a PI or two, after all.

They get a big win the week after, and Foggy manages to convince Matt to go for drinks and shenanigans on Friday evening; he calls Marci to tell her not to expect him anytime soon.

“Go light on the shenanigans, Foggy Bear,” she says, “I don’t want to have to come and bail out the both of you.”

He dutifully agrees and waits for Matt to finish dictating his own message. He tries not to listen but he still hears a few things: _Not tonight_ , _I’ll join you tomorrow_. Is it he ditching the mysterious lover for Foggy? Arranging to meet for Mass with Maggie?

“Did you have anything planned?” Foggy asks. “We can do that another night.”

Matt shakes his head. “Nah, we haven’t done Josie’s and shenanigans in too long.” He takes Foggy’s arm and moves his cane in a particularly wide arc as they walk, sending the few pedestrians around them scrambling; his wide smile and mostly shaven cheeks remind Foggy of their younger selves, so eager to save the world or at least the Kitchen with their shiny new law degrees. Matt was less banged up then, but he was also hiding so much; the memories are somewhat tainted now for Foggy. He wishes he’d known earlier; now he second-guesses everything he thought back then: that Matt wouldn’t hurt a fly, that he trusted the law 100%.

Two hours later, Foggy has to admit he’s not as young as he was either; after an insultingly small number of beers and three measly shots, Foggy’s sloshed. Shenanigans may have to wait. He watches Double Matt tap his way to the john and squints; he knows there’s only one Matt, but his eyes insist on deceiving him. Shit, someone(s) intercepts Matt(s) on the way to the restrooms; he can’t see the face because of the pulled-up hood, but the guy(s) looks big and vaguely menacing. He seems to turn his head in Foggy’s direction, but all he sees in the dim bar light is the glint of an eye. Foggy considers leaving his stool before the shit hits the fan; Matt’s gesturing angrily and even tapping the handle of his cane in the man’s chest. Foggy imagines it makes a dull thud as it hits the sternum, and he really doesn’t like the way Matt’s shoulders are moving. He is _not_ to go all Daredevil on anyone while he’s in his civvies, and just as Foggy decides he has to intervene the guy shrugs and leaves the bar. Foggy can’t manage to catch even a glimpse of the man’s profile, but at least Matt is not running after him or doing anything stupid.

“Who was that guy?” Foggy asks when Matt’s back at their table.

“Oh, uh. Former client,” he says.

“I didn’t recognize him, couldn't see his face. A client of ours, or from when you worked on your own?”

“Yeah.”

Okay, so Foggy’s drunk, sure, but he’s pretty sure even without having replaced blood with booze this wouldn’t register as an answer. “Looked pretty heated, from where I am.”

“He’s not – he’s okay.”

He’s _okay?_ Wow, comforting. “Is he going to come to the office?”

The shifty face makes an appearance (seriously, learn to lie, buddy) and Matt shakes his head. “Nah, don’t think so. Hey,” he adds suspiciously brightly, "what do you say we get some takeout?”

“Ooh, I like the way you think.” A wave of nostalgia hits him, but he realizes it’s something they can still do; no need for nostalgia. They’re still friends, after all these years and all that happened. “Then we go to your place, watch something?”

“I’ve missed your narrations, Foggy.”

Aw, Foggy’s missed them too. “I get to pick the movie, though.” He thinks for a minute, and the big guy of earlier gives him an idea. “ _Predator_! Some classic Arnie, what do you say?”

“Sign me up!”

Foggy wakes up with a mouth that feels like a skunk used it to have a week’s worth of bowel movements. He rubs his face and looks around, slowly remembering that he passed out on Matt’s couch in the small hours of the morning. Shit, Marci – he feels for his phone and finds it on the floor, but the battery’s dead. He’s got a spare charging cable in his satchel and plugs it in before crawling to the bathroom, emptying his bladder and splashing his face with cold water. Ugh, hangovers. He checks his phone and sees that yes, he did manage to tell Marci he’d crash at Matt’s after all; she replied with a selfie of herself in a very bubbly bath with a wide smile and a thumbs-up, so he guesses she had a good time too.

That done, he checks in with Matt, who’s still dead to the world in his bed. Foggy finds Matt’s own phone and plugs it in for him, then he goes to look at what’s available in the kitchen. If the offerings are too meager, he’ll get something delivered; breakfast burritos or whatever sound good. Something greasy. Matt’s got a new coffee machine, one that can make way more coffee than one regular person would need on a regular morning, but right now Foggy’s grateful for the buckets of nectar it promises in his near future.

As he’s shuffling around, his foot bumps into something that shouldn't be on the floor; he kneels and looks under the cupboards and finds he’s kicked a bowl of… water? What’s Matt doing with bowls of water on the kitchen floor? He’s always kept his floors as uncluttered as humanly possible; supersenses or not he's still blind and home is not the place where anyone wants to be on full alert 24/7. He grabs the bowl and is about to dump the water into the sink when he remembers the leash. The dog leash.

Shit.

But there’s no food bowl around, no bag of kibble, no toy; what’s happening here? What… oh. _Oh_. Foggy starts making pancake batter and waits for Matt to be lured in by the smells and noises in his kitchen.

Matt devours the food like it’s a carbs or death situation (Foggy gets it, he really does) and it’s only once he’s halfway into his third coffee that Foggy asks The Question.

“So, when were you going to tell me about it?”

Blink, confused frown, blink. “About what?”

“You’re looking to adopt a dog, right? You’ve said for years you didn’t want a guide dog, but I really think it’s a great idea.”

“Uh…” He doesn’t look enlightened. “Dog?” But ha! There, that slight stiffening in the shoulders.

 _Gotcha_ , Foggy thinks. “Well, I found the water bowl this morning, and you’re… I mean, you’ve been better at having actual food in your kitchen lately, right? It’s the little things, Matty; they add up. You want to prove you’re able to care for a dog, right? Do you have a meeting scheduled today with a dog trainer?”

Matt’s face is absolutely blank.

“You were supposed to yesterday, right? That phone call, before we went to Josie’s. Come on, I don’t have your freak ears, but I can put two and two together! That makes way more sense than the rest, anyway.”

“The… rest?”

“Yeah, I thought maybe you’d gotten back onto the dating scene, but I remember seeing a leash here once. Unless you’re into really kinky stuff in which case, I do _not_ want to know.” Foggy shudders.

“Uh.” Matt sips some coffee, then puts the mug back on the table and tilts his head. “No, I… no dog. I mean, I’m not adopting.”

“Oh.” Foggy grimaces. “It’s the kinky shit, then. Ugh, I haven’t even finished my coffee!”

“There is no kinky shit with dog leashes, Foggy. I promise.”

“My poor brain, Matt! It is scarred. I do _not_ want to think about it.”

“Then don’t.” Matt grins, and then makes a gentle _woof_ before starting to snicker uncontrollably.

“I hate you so, so much,” Foggy says, but he’s laughing too.

He only remembers he didn’t get any actual answer once he’s in a cab back home. Ah, _shit_.

When he gets back home later that morning, he finds Marci reading in bed, the remains of her own breakfast on a tray on _his_ pillow.

“I see you didn’t miss me at all,” he says before kissing her hello.

She wrinkles her nose and pokes him away. “Aw, I missed you as much as you missed me!” Okay, fair enough. “But, Foggy Bear, you stink!”

“Forgive me for putting the need to see my fiancée before the need for a shower,” he replies with a wink, but she’s right. He’s probably smelling like he’s feeling, which is really… gross. Matt didn’t say anything, but Matt also claims he’s learned to treat smells like information and not something to judge, so Foggy’s going to roll with it.

“Go on, I’ll join you when I’m done with this article,” she says. “They say the Punisher went and took down a drug cartel last night, but that he didn’t kill a single one of them. That’s not quite his usual MO, is it?”

Foggy raises his eyebrows. “Nope, he’s more the ‘murder first, silent death stare afterward’ type.” And before, to be honest. That man’s constantly plotting bad guy decimation, as far as Foggy can tell.

“Hm. You know Castle; you defended him.”

Oh boy. “Sort of, yeah. Are they sure it’s him?”

“Well, the perps said it was a terrifying guy with a skull on his vest and a lot of guns.”

“Yeah, that fits. But Frank Castle isn’t the kind to give people a second chance.” No, he’s more into making sure they don’t do anything ever after, be it good or bad.

“Hm. That’s more like Daredevil, I guess. He doesn’t kill, or so they say.” Her eyes quickly skim the rest of the article before she throws the tablet aside. “You know him too, right? Worked with him.”

Foggy gulps. “I, uh.”

“I’m not asking you to spill everything; I’m an attorney, too.” She slides out of bed and Foggy is distracted for a moment by her legs. “But you know several of those vigilantes; you could ask around.”

“Uh huh, sure.” She kicks him in the shin, just enough to make his eyes jump back to hers. “Uh, ask? Ask what?”

“If Castle’s turning into a big softie.”

Her shirt hits the floor, and so does Foggy’s brain. “Uh, right.” His eyes are definitely straying away from her face now.

“Really, what’s the point of marrying you if you can’t get me the juicy bits?”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m very good with juicy bits, and that alone is enough to marry me.”

She groans and rolls her eyes but she lets him prove he’s totally right, so Foggy counts it as a win.

When Monday comes, Foggy’s determined to get answers. Has Matt met Frank Castle lately? Why did Foggy find a water bowl and a leash at Matt’s place? Oh, and did he take the crosswords magazines for someone? Foggy wishes Karen were here; she’s good at making people talk. It’s not always pleasant for them, true, but she gets results. However, she’s had to drive to her hometown and she doesn’t know when she’ll be back. She hasn’t been back in – ten years? Fifteen years? Anyway, her father’s finally agreed to see her again, so Foggy’s not about to demand she come back just to make Matt spill about the mysterious dog-and-crosswords-and-stocked-fridges person in Matt’s life.

But when Matt arrives, he’s sporting a big shiner that his glasses can’t hide and he definitely looks pinched. Something’s hurting, and his fancy meditation isn’t enough to fix it.

“Holy shit, Matt, what happened?”

“I’m sure you can guess,” Matt replies as he shuffles to his desk like an old man.

“Well yeah, but you’ve been really good at staying uninjured since you got shot; I was hoping it would stick.”

“Nothing’s broken, Fogs; I promise.”

“And you won’t go out for a few nights, right? You don’t want to catch a stray bullet.”

Matt tilts his head. “It happened _once_ , Fogs.” And he says this as if _Foggy_ is the one being unreasonable!

“Imagine if it happened _never_! Hey, speaking of bullets, I heard the Punisher’s been busy.”

Matt’s hand jumps to his black eye and he _very unconvincingly_ turns it into raking his fingers through his hair. “Yeah,” he says in a somewhat strangled voice.

Foggy narrows his eyes. “Wait. Was it Frank Castle? Did he do that to you?”

“No!” Wow, that sure was defensive. Matt must have realized it too, because his voice is quieter when he continues. “He’s not all about the killing and violence, you know.”

“Uh huh.” Foggy sits on the corner of Matt’s desk; he’s starting to have… suspicions. “Have you been working together lately? Or just, I don’t know, had a chat?” Matt’s lips get thinner, but he keeps quiet. “I’m happy if you’re not doing all you do all on your lonesome, as long as your partner remembers he’s not supposed to shoot you.”

“He hasn't shot me. Recently.”

Ah, yes, the Incident, but that was what, three years ago? Foggy knows he’s got to pick his battles and focuses on the now. “Aha! Admit it; you’re meeting at night.”

Matt… blushes. _Blushes?_ “Not meeting-meeting; it’s just…” He sighs. “He helped me when I got shot, drove me to St. Agnes.”

“Do you know where he lives? I should bake him a cake or something.”

“He, uh, he keeps to himself.”

“Right, yes, he’s got the lone brooding manly thing down pat, sure. Pretty much like you, in fact.”

“Hey!” Matt’s indignant, and Foggy grins. “At least I never kill people.”

“Well, maybe you’re rubbing off of him.” Matt chokes and coughs, and Foggy goes to pat his back. “Hey, you all right?”

Matt nods and gratefully latches on the bottle of water Foggy’s handing him. ‘Thanks,” he croaks after gulping down some. “Uh, what did you mean?”

“Not what you were thinking of, clearly; I meant that while we were imbibing the other night your tall, dark, and murdery buddy managed to destroy a drug cartel without killing a single one of them. That’s not very like him; did you convince him of the merits of redemption and forgiveness in between getting shot and parkouring through the city?”

“No, I…” Okay, where is that shy smile coming from? “We’ve talked a bit, but I don’t think… maybe he wanted to try something new; I don’t know.” Matt’s a fidgeter, and since his cane is folded and on his desk his fingers have to make do with the bottle. “The crosswords were for him,” he blurts out.

“The – _what?_ ” The mental image of Frank Castle, Marine, vigilante, and arguably serial killer, doing crosswords in his spare time falls somewhere between disturbing and comedic.

“He does stuff like sudoku and memory games, too.”

“ _The Punisher does sudoku?_ ” Matt winces; Foggy’s voice may have gone a bit too high, but he feels justified.

“He likes crosswords better, I think.” Foggy’s _this close_ to hyperventilating; this is hysterical. “He says he’s got to keep what’s left of his brain in working order.”

Shit, yeah. The guy was shot in the head, that’s true. Who knows what he lost? Foggy remembers Frank’s medical file, what they’d had access to anyway: traumatic brain injury, no visible cognitive deficiency, unable to assess if the violent behavior was due to the injury or the traumatic loss of his family, or if it had been present before those. Maybe it was a combination of all of the above. Probably, in fact. “Oh,” Foggy says. When he thinks about Frank Castle, Foggy thinks of death and violence, but the guy’s also a stubborn asshole who somehow survived the worst and then some. “Well, he’s got to have hobbies, and all the better if they help, right?”

Matt nods, cautiously. He’s probably a bit surprised by Foggy’s reaction. “Yeah. I help him out sometimes; he’s brought them to a couple of stakeouts.”

Okay, _that’s_ funny. “Really? I’ll be honest, Matt, I don’t know what to do with that. You and him, cross-legged on a roof somewhere, him reading a definition out loud to you while you wait for someone to make an appearance?”

Matt shrugs. “We can wait a long time, and coffee only does so much.”

“I bet.” Foggy checks his phone; their first appointment is in fifteen minutes. “Just promise me you’ll be careful; I don’t want you to end up in the crossfire between him and whoever it is he’s got his sights on, yeah?” He’s not going to tell Matt not to meet Frank again; their paths have to cross sometimes given what they both do and Foggy would rather Matt had an ally than an enemy in the Punisher, however he feels about the man. He’s not going to make Matt stop being Daredevil; he’s accepted that, but he can still remind him to be as safe as he can, however little that is.

Matt squeezes Foggy’s arm in reply, and they set down to reviewing their notes on Ms. Cortez’s case.

They don’t speak about Frank Castle after that; Foggy knows he and Matt occasionally work and apparently do crosswords, together, and that’s that. At least Frank’s not an enemy, even though he’s a leeettle bit unhinged; Foggy’s well aware that vigilante types are rarely posterboys or -girls for sane, healthy, and balanced behavior. Knowing Matt’s got partners sometimes gives Foggy a modicum of peace of mind, even if said partners are folks like a constantly pissed-off alcoholic with an attitude problem or a trigger-happy killer. Matt’s got people in his corner, is what Foggy chooses to focus on.

The construction site between their office and Matt’s apartment brings them a big case, and that’s something Foggy can do something about, contrary to Matt’s adrenaline junkie tendencies. He chooses to play with fire and risk his life, but the workers on that site have reported their own lives are in jeopardy because the contractors are cutting corners, and definitely not out of their own desire to risk their necks. Safety, what safety? OSHA? Never heard of it, looks like. Hazardous materials are stocked near potential fire sources, and some of the heavy machinery is outdated or badly-maintained. Adequate equipment or training isn’t available, a lot of the guys on site are undocumented and have no protection, and of course they’re paid peanuts while asked to work overtime. Matt has talked to some of them on his way to and from the office; he’s walking past the site every day. He’s gone there at night too and poked around, and he swears the badly-secured scaffolding is the least of the issues there. So they take on that case and get ready to fight the good fight.

They work long hours, piss off all the wrong (or right, depending on your point of view) people, and build (hah) their case. This, Foggy thinks as he’s climbing the stairs up to their office, is why they’ve chosen this job, this firm. Matt’s coming in later today; he’s got a court appointment at 10, so Foggy’s not worried. After a while, however, he notices there’s an unusual number of sirens in the streets, so Foggy opens a window to look outside. An acrid, chemical smell fills his nose and he shuts down the window right away. Something’s burning somewhere, and – his phone rings. He looks at the screen before hitting the green button and says, “Matt? Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He sounds short of breath, though. “The construction site,” a pause, “it’s on fire. The streets are all blocked, there are police and fire trucks everywhere; I’m not coming in today.” He coughs, wheezes a bit.

“Where are you?”

“I’m going to try and get some information; I’ll call you.”

Shouts and sirens get louder on Matt’s end, and Foggy can hear Matt’s sharp intake of breath. “Wait, what’s happening? Matt, what’s…”

“Gotta go.”

Foggy is left staring at his phone. The asshole’s just hung up on him, and Foggy can only hope he’s not going to run into the fire to do… whatever it is he does. Punch the fire into submission? Kick it until it dies down? What? But he knows Matt won’t pick up if he calls again, so he leaves a message on Marci’s phone to tell her he’s okay and spends the rest of the day sending Matt texts, trying to work, sending more texts, worrying, not getting any sign from Matt, checking the news.

They say the fire is of unknown origin but they’re not ruling out arson, that there are 20 casualties but miraculously no deaths (yet), that some of them are badly burned and suffered smoke inhalation. The entire neighborhood is at risk from the chemicals that burned, and forensic teams are waiting for the firefighters to give their okay so they can go in and analyze what’s left. Foggy’s biting his nails, until they run a story about one of the site workers helping his colleagues escape, running back in to get more out. There’s shaky footage from a witness who recorded the scene on their phone; a big guy stumbling out with another man thrown over his shoulders and a third hobbling behind him. The big guy collapses when two medics get to him and that’s when Foggy sees Matt (or at least a guy with round, red glasses), alive and well, trying to get closer.

Foggy’s relieved that Matt wasn’t the one to be stupidly heroic this time, and while he’s a bit surprised that he seems so adamant in fighting the fire department to get to the injured guys, he figures it’s probably because he knows them better than Foggy does. Matt’s usually the one who talks with them; many only speak Spanish, and Foggy’s useless beyond a few words in that language. The news bite cuts back to the anchor, who says all three men were taken to the hospital and should be fine; she mentions Matt as “One of the lawyers who are defending the site workers in a lawsuit against their employer,” then cites the many _alleged_ (totally true, as Foggy’s well aware) violations that the contractor denies.

Well then, maybe Matt’s gone to the hospital with the guys. At least he’s fine; he’s probably making sure the workers are given the care they need, translating, and so on. Foggy sends him a last text and picks up the folder about Mr. Lim’s case; they do have other clients to defend.

Foggy wakes up to a message from Matt: _Not coming to the office today; I’ll be at the hospital._

What? _What?_ Foggy sends back.

_Checking in with the injured workers. I’m fine._

Oh. Foggy shakes his head; he _knew_ Matt was okay. Still, who can blame him? Once bitten, etc; you only had to find your best friend lying in a pool of his own blood _once_ to fear the worst forever after. _I’ll work from home too; I’ll do appointments on the phone_. Leaving the Kitchen yesterday was an exercise in patience, what with the crowds of gawkers and blocked streets, and the area itself was probably still reeking. He doubted they’d have any walk-ins, and he’d call Ms. Sahdi instead of having her come in.

_Thanks, Foggy._

_No problem._

The next day, Matt’s supposed to come to the office; Foggy decides to swing by Matt’s after leaving him voicemail. They could walk together to the office, get some bagels if Matt’s late and hasn’t eaten yet, do as they often did when Foggy lived in the Kitchen too. Matt doesn’t reply, but he might be in the shower at this hour; Foggy’s got a key, so it’s not a problem. Matt generally comes in at the office at around 9:30 or maybe 10 and warns Foggy if he’s going to be later than that; if he hasn’t sent anything it generally means he’s overslept (or that he’s badly hurt, but Foggy refuses to entertain that idea). But mostly, Foggy thinks, it’ll be good to talk face to face and not on the phone.

He treks up the stairs, knocks on the door, but no Matt. “Matt, are you sleeping in?” No reply, just some clicking and snuffling. Zombies? Nah. “Okay, I’m coming in!”

As soon as he steps foot into the apartment, he’s assaulted by a giant dog that tries to either maul him or lick his face, Foggy’s not quite sure; he’s about to scream for help when a sharp whistle makes the dog stop and trot back to the bedroom. Shit, did the dog… eat Matt? He can’t see any blood, but… _Where_ is Matt?

Foggy gingerly moves in. Everything is quiet, suspiciously so; he’s got to move further in. Foggy’s never claimed to be brave, and he’s really feeling the jitters in his gut right now. He spots crutches against the wall, Matt’s phone on the kitchen counter; he pokes at it and sees it’s dead, so Matt probably didn’t get his message (and isn’t dead. Nope, nuh uh). The coffee machine’s light is on and there are some mugs in the sink, the coffee dregs not yet dry at the bottom.

Okay. Things are _too_ quiet. He’s going to turn around, see Matt sleeping in bed, and there will be no blood. Maybe a dog, but Matt’s allowed to adopt dogs if he wants to. Even if they’re, like, a giant, drooling Hound of the Baskervilles type and maybe even glow in the dark. Oh god, he’s terrified.

He takes a deep breath, turns, and looks into the bedroom.

A gun is pointed at him, and Foggy feels he’s entitled to a manly scream, thank you very much. There’s only so much a man can take before his second coffee, after all.

“Nelson?”

“Frank Castle,” Foggy wheezes out.

The gun drops back on the bed. Frank’s got an oxygen tube under his nose and looks like he’s gone through hell, or at least a fire; one of his arms is wrapped around a bod… holy shit, around _Matt_ , who’s right now pushing himself up and looking horribly uncoordinated. “You’re going to fall off the bed,” Frank says, and wow, he sounds rough. The dog trots to Foggy, sniffs at his shoes, then turns back to jump on the bed and make itself at home on Frank’s legs. And Matt’s legs. So many legs, and also the dog’s legs; why does this feel like first grade math? Foggy shakes his head.

“Um,” Foggy says.

“Um,” Matt says. He looks like he wants to crawl under the bed instead of sitting on it, but he has to make do with the too-big sweatshirt that Foggy remembers from a while ago. He feels for his alarm clock and it says, _9:23 am_. “Oh shit, Foggy, I'm sorry, I.” He stops, blinks, rubs his face. Frank looks amused; there’s a quirk to his lips Foggy’s never seen before. Well, back then the circumstances were (one could fairly say) different.

“So,” Foggy tries. Yeah, no. How is he supposed to start that conversation? “I’ll.” He jerks a thumb behind him, sighs, adds, “I’ll just be. Go?”

“No! No, let me just put on a suit and I’ll be right behind you.” He stands up then turns to Frank, still in the bed. “Will you be okay on your own? I can call…”

“I’ll be fine, Red. Got Bear to keep me company and a stack of crosswords to go through.” He pats a magazine on the bed and looks straight at Foggy. “Thanks for those, by the way.”

“I thought they were for his… someone else,” Foggy replies. He’s not sure he should mention Maggie is Matt’s mother.

“But Bear needs to go out from time to time, and you’re supposed to stay put,” Matt says as he strips down to his boxers as unselfconsciously as he ever did back when he and Foggy shared a dorm. “Don’t even think about it,” he adds when Frank opens his mouth.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

Matt knots his tie with jerky movements as he replies, “Yes I do. You’re not going out, and that's final.”

“Oh yeah?”

Foggy’s quite ready to stay and watch them play the Old Marrieds’ Spat in front of his eyes, but they’ve got work ahead of them, so he steps in. “Matt, you can come back here for lunch; the office is not even three blocks away.” The aforementioned Old Marrieds look (well, ‘look’ in one case) back at him. They’re so coordinated it’s almost eerie. “What?”

“You’re … okay with… this?” Matt waves his hand between Frank and himself.

“This?” Foggy’s not really sure he’s _okay with this_ , but making Matt sweat is helping. So.

“He means me,” Frank adds helpfully.

“Well, at least it’s better than finding you mostly dead on the floor.”

“He does that,” Frank says. Matt gapes. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

“ _Frank!_ ”

Foggy is absolutely not finding Matt and _the Punisher_ having a domestic entertaining, nope, no sir. “Are you ready?”

Mat pats his hair and shrugs. “Yeah, it’s as good as it’s going to be.” He puts on his jacket and then hovers by the bed, awkward as can be.

Because he’s not a total asshole (even when _some_ people deserve it), Foggy leaves the bedroom and says, “I’ll grab your things.” He tries not to peek at the bedroom as he makes a pile with the Braille documents on the coffee table and Matt’s work laptop, but he hears them speaking in a low voice. He is not, however, eavesdropping.

“Thought you’d told him.”

“I was working up to it.”

Not Foggy’s fault if he can hear them, right? He dumps the file and computer in Matt’s messenger bag then goes hunting for Matt’s glasses; he finds them in the bathroom next to a glass with two – _two_ – toothbrushes in it. He gets back into the living room right as Matt is leaving the bedroom, Cerberus or whatever the dog’s name is on his heels – ah yes, Bear.

“Your phone’s dead; I tried to warn you I was coming but I thought you were in the shower or something.”

“Yeah, I forgot to plug the charger in.” He takes the glasses being handed to him and aims a lethally charming _Aw, shucks_ smile at Foggy. “We got back here from the hospital pretty late yesterday; it slipped my mind.”

“You spent the entire day at the hospital?”

“I told you I’d try and talk to the injured site workers.”

“He mostly stayed with me,” Frank says.

Matt raises his chin. “Well, you _are_ one of the injured site workers.”

“Wait, what?” Foggy’s going to demand a full and _detailed_ recap as soon as they’re on their way.

“But I also talked with a few others! We’re going to win this case, I know it.”

“Not if you stay here instead of going to work like a good little lawyer, Red.”

Matt nods, shoulders his bag, bends to scratch the dog’s ears, and waves his (still dead) phone at Frank: “Call me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Don’t make me get out of bed and kick you out.” Matt’s face cycles through a few emotions – open-mouthed indignation, worried frown, reluctant amusement, and finally something soft that looks like… like squishy feelings Foggy really doesn’t want to consider in relation to Frank Castle right now. He needs that second coffee first.

“Fine, fine. See if I care,” Matt says, then takes Foggy’s arm and sidesteps Bear’s attempts at tripping them like he’s used to it.

Shit.

He _is_ used to it, isn't he? So. Many. Questions.

“So,” Foggy says as casually as he can after letting Matt stew for two blocks. “Frank Castle, uh.”

Matt does a fish impression for a while, until Foggy elbows him gently and he finally mutters, “It’s not like that.”

“Not like you’ve had a secret boyfriend for… weeks? months? and that said bf is in fact the big, bad Punisher himself?” Foggy tries to sound stern just to make Matt squirm a bit; he deserves it, but Foggy’s not angry, not anymore. Matt has an unfortunate _thing_ for traumatized people who sublimate their rage into blood and murder; it’s just a fact of life and there's nothing Foggy (or Matt) can do about it. Frank wasn’t a child soldier or brought back to life to become a mindless weapon for a cult, so there’s that, right? No one knows if Elektra’s still alive, or if Matt knows, he’s not telling. Foggy hopes she’s alive, going through therapy, and somewhere very far away from New York; he gets that she didn't choose what life dealt her but holy shit, she’s Matt’s kryptonite and he’s volatile enough as it is.

“So,” Foggy continues since Matt’s keeping quiet, “you and him. How long has it been?”

“Couple months,” he finally admits.

“Oh, wow. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did; I told you we… meet.”

“Sure, you told me you did crossword puzzles at night together; that’s not _quite_ the same, buddy.” Matt is visibly trying to look contrite, but Foggy’s not buying it. “Dog poop to your left, three feet ahead. So, how did you end up together-together, and not just sudoku-together?”

“I don’t do sudoku.”

“ _Matt_.”

“Got him out of a bad spot that one time, then we kept finding each other going after the same people.” Matt shrugs. “You know.”

“No, I don’t, but I’ll take your word for it.” Foggy makes sure Matt sidesteps the giant fecal offering on the sidewalk, and continues: “And the dog, he’s Frank’s dog?”

“Bear, yeah. He rescued him from a dog fighting ring. Frank’s pretty sensitive about that.”

“What, so he _is_ a big softie?” Marci would be amused. Foggy pushes the door to their office building open and leads them inside; the air is stale and stinky in there. “Ugh, it still smells like burned crap.”

“Yeah, the Kitchen’s smelled like that since the fire. And I don’t think the guys who were keeping the dogs would think he’s a big softie.”

Well, sure, Foggy can see that, but he’s also seen Frank’s face when looking at Matt. Amused, content, teasing. Still, Castle’s kill count is a concern. “Do you, you know…?” First time they met, Frank shot him; Foggy’s worry is a perfectly legitimate worry.

Matt barks a surprised laugh; he holds the office door open for them and grins as he replies. “Sex? Do we have sex? Do you want all the details, Foggy?”

“No! I do not, allow me to repeat and emphasize, I do _not_ , want to know about your sex life. Ever!” It’s probably a series of acrobatic feats of strength on the roofs of Hell’s Kitchen and Foggy doesn’t _want_ to think about it. Ugh! He shakes his head and goes to poke at their coffee machine. “Fight, I meant fight. You’re both, uh. You’ve fought before.”

“Oh.” Matt folds his cane and drops it on his desk. “Yeah, sometimes.”

Okay, and now Foggy’s alarm levels are going up again. “Matt… shit, does he hurt you?”

“What? No! No, we just… disagree about things, about how to do things. I believe in second chances and giving people a fair trial; he believes in something more, uh, final.”

“He kills everyone.”

“Not everyone! He didn’t, with the cartel. I asked him not to, even though I wouldn't be there with him to stop him.”

“The cartel? What… oh, you mean the one he basically delivered to the police?”

“Yeah.”

Foggy watches the coffee start to drip through; it’s an old-fashioned machine that he brought back from Nelson’s Meats when they moved out to their new offices. It used to be in the deli when he was a kid, and it had been gathering dust for a long time when he unearthed it last year. It’s still working, and it’s nice to have a memento around of where he comes from. “Wait. He’s the guy you were on the verge of fighting in the middle of Josie’s?”

“Yes. But we were not fighting; we were just… talking.”

“It looked like fists were about to fly, is what I’m saying.” _Drip drip_ , agrees the coffee.

“We both feel very strongly about this.” Maybe, but Frank Castle followed Matt’s rules that night; it’s kind of cute, if one thinks about it. For a certain value of cute. “Anyway, he’s not hurting me; what gave you that idea?”

Oh, yeah, right, there’s still _every-fucking-thing else_. “Well, he shot you, for one!”

“That was years ago!”

“ _That_ was, also, pretty bad.”

Matt hums. “Well, that’s in the past. In fact, he was around when I got shot a few weeks ago; he made sure I had food and everything.”

Foggy freezes. The well-stocked fridge, the military corners on the bed, the effin’ dog leash… Of course! “But I never saw him!”

“I think he was on the roof with Bear at least once when you came by.”

Jesus. “And now he’s some sort of hero, running into fires to save people.”

“He was already inside; he works on the site.”

Foggy falls backwards into the battered office couch, making sure his coffee doesn’t spill. “Frank Castle has a regular job too?”

“Well, Francisco Castillo.”

“That’s a terrible alias.”

“He’s got legal papers to the name of Pete Castiglione but the CIA gave them to him, so he didn’t want to use those. They'd have tracked him down.” Matt joins him on the couch. “He does odd jobs here and there, makes some money; it gives him something to do too. He saw what was happening there and got himself hired under that identity, and that’s how I got the tip about the case.”

“So that’s why you spent the day in the hospital, then. Because of him.”

Matt sips some coffee before answering. “I was worried. He still needs oxygen, but I managed to get him out before he snapped. He doesn’t like hospitals.”

Yeah, who does? Foggy doesn’t either, and _he_ didn’t wake up in one with his entire family murdered and a hole in his own, too-alive head. “Right.”

“I did interview some of the other workers, those who could speak. It’s looking good, Foggy; we’re going to win this. We’re going to give them justice and take that contractor down.”

“That’s good, then! They’re assholes.”

“Yeah.” Matt swirls what’s left of his coffee and gulps it down. “But we have to keep Frank’s name out of it; he’s seen a lot but he can’t testify, can’t be a witness. He’ll help, but not like that.”

“I hope you don’t mean he’ll help by, I don’t know, gunning down the contractors.”

“No, he’s given his word he wouldn’t. Well, not until the trial is over, anyway.”

Well, that’s… better than nothing, Foggy decides. You take the wins you’re given, right? “Maybe he’s planning on unleashing that giant wolf on them instead?”

“Bear’s very sweet; he’s Frank’s neighbor’s best friend and Millie’s five. Five _and a half,_ as she wants everyone to know.”

Oh god, a five year old child would be about as tall as that beast. And a gentle beast Bear might be, but those _teeth_! “You guys have a strange idea of what’s safe and what’s not.”

“I’d have loved a dog when I was a kid,” Matt says a bit wistfully.

“What? I thought you never wanted one.”

“Not after the accident; they’d have given me a seeing eye dog and I wanted… I just wanted a regular dog. A friend, for when my dad came back home late. I didn’t need a guide dog, but that’s what I’d have ended up with. A cripple’s dog,” he says bitterly.

“That’s not what they are.”

“That’s what people would have seen: the crippled kid, with the service animal because he can’t cope on his own.”

“That's… really not…” But what does Foggy know? Matt’s right about one thing: there could have been more pity aimed at him, and Matt doesn’t do well with pity, understandably so. And he’s not going to change Matt’s mind on that point anytime soon. “They’re still dogs, Matt. You could still have a dog friend.” And god knows little Matty could have used more friends, of the human or canine variety. “And hey, now you’ve got one! I’ve got to tell you though, Bear’s a bit scary. Like Frank, I guess, so that makes sense.”

“Frank’s not scary.”

“Frank’s plenty scary. Trust me; I know these things.”

“You’re braver than you give yourself credit for, Fogs. I’m not; I just don’t _see_ the danger.” He waggles his eyebrows like the terrible, horrible, dork he is and Foggy groans.

“Okay, fine; for this, you deserve to work on the Kingel file.”

“Foggy, no! It’s a divorce; you know I hate those!”

“Too bad, buddy!” Foggy dashes off to his office and tries not to cackle at Matt’s discomfited expression but hey, they have to make enough money to keep on doing the good work for people who can’t pay, so… “It’s your just deserts!”

Matt grimaces, but Foggy knows he’s going to do a great job anyway because that's what they do here, at Nelson and Murdock, Hell’s Kitchen.

The rest of the week goes smoothly enough; Foggy notices some dog hair on Matt’s suit now he knows to look for it, but nothing else seems to change. Nothing _has_ to change, now he thinks about it; the only difference is that now Foggy’s aware that Matt’s mystery lover of the stocked fridge and crosswords is, in fact, the one and only Frank Castle. It’s not an inconsequential idea to wrap his head around, but he’s getting there; having seen the Punisher as a guy laid out in bed, wearing sweats, and with a nasal cannula on his face helps. He’s just a guy; he’s human. He’s not that scary; he gets hurt. He smiles.

Okay, he’s still scary. But Matt is, well, he’s happy; Foggy asks about Frank, and Matt just looks so grateful to be able to talk about him. As one would expect of Frank Castle, he’s doing push-ups and pull-ups and all sorts of ups Foggy can’t even imagine three days after running into a fire. He’s also building a collapsible crate for his dog to keep at Matt’s; Matt claims he’s annoyed at more clutter in his apartment but he’s a terrible liar. He is, in fact, very much pleased with having the dog (and Frank) around more, and Foggy refrains from teasing him too much. He may have bought a skull-shaped mug for the office and shoved it, filled to the brim with hot coffee, in Matt’s hands without warning, but hey. A guy’s got to have fun at his buddy’s expense sometimes, right? Matt did some impressive face calisthenics at that, and the memory kept Foggy chuckling through the day.

Foggy wakes up on Sunday with Marci shoving her tablet in his face, an article speculating about Daredevil teaming up with the Punisher after they were spotted together the night before.

“They look awfully chummy,” she says.

Foggy squints at the screen and scrolls down until he gets to some grainy footage. Whoever shot this zoomed in and Matt’s mask is pretty recognizable, dark and low over his face; he's also wearing the ropes (or at least there’s something light gray around his hands and wrists instead of black like the rest of his ass-kicking attire). And the other guy… the other guy turns around and there’s a flash of white on his chest, right where the skull would be if the image was less blurry. They stand very close to each other, closer than a simple – okay, okay now it definitely looks like they’re more than chummy. They’re both leaning against the roof parapet and touching from shoulder to elbow to thigh, their heads bent together.

“Shit.” She’s right.

“You know them.”

Foggy looks up at her, and he can’t look away. He’s trapped. “Uh…”

“I don’t mean as a client or an informant; I mean you _know_ them.”

“I can’t…” He can claim that as Frank’s attorney at least; he can’t divulge some things, but Frank’s not really the one in question here.

“Of course, Foggy Bear.” She kisses his forehead before getting out of bed and stretches in front of the window; the morning light goes through her light, thin shirt and Foggy’s eyes… stray. She’s doing it on purpose, to distract him; he doesn't mind one bit. “You should ask Matt to bring his boyfriend around for dinner next week; I’d like to get to know him.”

His attention snaps back to her amused face. “Marci?”

“Aw, did you really believe I’d never figure it out?” She smiles the same smile she’s got when she’s about to demolish her opponent in court. It’s both hot and terrifying. “I think I would like to make it very clear that not a single hair on your head should be hurt, ever, but it’s already happened, right?” She sits on the bed. “I don’t know Frank Castle, but Matt… well. He would never willingly hurt you, yes, but…”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh, I bet it is.”

“It’s not my story to tell.”

“That's fair.” Marci takes his hands, slides her fingers between his. “But I wouldn't mind having Matt bringing his plus one to our wedding.”

“He’d terrify everyone else.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Foggy rolls his eyes. “And just think of it: we’ve both made enemies, the kind that get other people killed; you especially.”

“Fisk?”

“Among others, but yes. And…” She shudders. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but _your_ _mother_ , Foggy.”

Oh boy, yes. She is obsessed with having as many grandchildren as possible as quickly as possible, and he and Marci are definitely not there yet and maybe not ever. They need all the buffer and distraction they can get. “Ah, so you want your own personal scary bodyguard.”

“I do.”

He grins. “I like hearing you say those words.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

Then even these words become overrated, for a while.

The dinner gets postponed a few times; the work safety case grows into epic proportions and Matt takes to including their office in his nightly rounds, which is the only thing that saves it from being trashed by a pair of small-time criminals. They quickly cough up that they’ve been hired by a guy ‘working’ for a shell corp that is a cover for the company the workers are suing, so Brett comes to visit them at Nelson and Murdock, rolls his eyes a lot, and throws his hands up when they refuse extra protection.

“We’re part of this community, of Hell’s Kitchen,” Matt says, “we’re not afraid of them.”

“Them the people after you, or the Kitchen’s citizens?”

Matt lifts his chin. “Both.”

Brett looks at Foggy and probably hopes he’ll be more reasonable, but Matt’s being inspiring so Foggy follows. “Sorry, Brett.” He’s not _that_ sorry, but still; he doesn’t envy Brett having to tell his ma and therefore Foggy’s mom that yeah, they’ll do without police protection.

Brett’s muttering something about lawyers being pains in his ass as he leaves, but then they hear loud swearing coming from the hall and Foggy sees Matt’s smirk. One minute later Frank’s coming in with his giant hound, because he wants to steal Matt so they can plan whatever it is they’re planning for the weekend (something about a meth lab; Foggy tries not to listen to the details).

Several mild for _some_ people’s standards, life-threatening according to other, more reasonable people’s, injuries later, things calm down. Apart from that one time someone shoots through their office window, but Matt senses it coming and tackles Foggy to the floor. And well, you know, being around Matt & Co has certainly skewed Foggy’s idea of what a quiet day should be like. Bullet holes in front of his desk are no big deal, and they even add a certain _je-ne-sais-quoi_ to their practice. Look ma, we’re dealing with the real shit here. The body found two days later in one of Brett’s precinct dumpsters turns out to be their shooter’s, and everyone is careful to avoid saying Frank’s name out loud. Retaliation for a mangled job, they all agree. With bonus bite marks but there are scavengers and wild dogs in New York too, right? Right.

Brett glares at Pete “Who, Frank Castle? Never Heard Of That Guy In My Entire Life” Castiglione’s face the whole time he’s there; he’s not the detective on that particular case but he’s maybe got some intel on the contractor case, and what if he lets something slip as he’s aggressively dumping a box of chocolates on Foggy’s desk? These things happen. Folders slip out.

“For helping my mom with her landlord,” Brett grinds out as he glares at the candy.

“Landlord an asshole?” Frank asks, finally looking up from his crossword.

“You’re not here; you’re not talking, and I’m not listening.”

“I’m good with assholes. If you need more help.”

Brett slides a manila file under the chocolates. “No one’s murdering any landlord at all whatsoever in any circumstances, ever. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Waiting for Matt; he’s finishing up with a client,” Foggy says right as Frank replies, “Making sure no one tries anything stupid.”

There’s a short silence as everyone is contemplating who this _no one_ is and what stupid thing they might be considering (there are, after all, several options), and it gets a little less short when Matt ushers his client out and comes back to stand between them all, eyebrows raised.

“You’re all suspiciously quiet; were you talking about me?”

There are two nos and one yes, and Brett finally leaves with a _What did I do to deserve these idiots in my life?_ look on his face.

“So, what should we bring tonight?” Matt asks brightly. “Wine? Dessert?”

The dinner is a success, they win the case, and finally – finally! – the wedding is there. It’s a beautiful day; everyone is dressed to the nines and Foggy will never forget Marci’s blinding smile or his mother’s happy tears. He’s on top of the world, and there are so many moments he’ll never forget.

And if one of them is Marci’s bouquet bouncing off Frank’s head and ending in a very surprised-looking Matt’s hands, well. He’s also marrying her for her mischievous side, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is "liaison" ;-)


End file.
